


Through winter, summer, then winter again

by lonevvanderer



Series: What-if Westeros [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dragons, Gen, House of the Undying, Implied Long Night, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Imprisonment, One Shot, Prophetic Visions, Tragedy, Very minor Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25114174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonevvanderer/pseuds/lonevvanderer
Summary: The what-ifs of Westeros...Daenerys Targaryen never escapes the House of the Undying
Series: What-if Westeros [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1819012
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	Through winter, summer, then winter again

Daenerys walked slowly through the never-ending corridors of the House of the Undying, taking in the damp grey walls as her torchlight illuminated each stone when she passed by. She worried, for her dragons, for herself. She had abandoned Ser Jorah outside and left herself near defenceless to what lay within.

_Not defenceless_ , she pondered, _my children are in here with me_. But first, she must find them. First, she must set them free.

She heard a cry in a distant room, the wail of a young dragon yearning for its mother. The sound panicked Daenerys and made her heart hurt, spurning her to move faster through the twisting corridors. With every step, the halls grew colder, and a strange and glowing light emerged on the hallway horizon.

Daenerys sprinted towards it, the soft cries of her children growing louder and more pained. When she entered through the archway she was not greeted by dragons, but by a room of grand structure - pillars and fires and windows three times the size of her. She dropped her flaming torch onto the snow-covered ground to admire the one thing she had never truly seen. 

The Iron Throne.

It was ugly and hard, and cruel-looking, and for a split second, Daenerys was repulsed by it. But then she stopped. She watched as broken moonlight poured through the burned rafters to flicker across the iron, and stood in awe. Viserys had told her so much of their father’s throne, his throne, _her throne_ , that it was almost impossible to believe it stood before her now.

She approached it tentatively and cautiously, wary of its sharp steel and bloodied blades. Would it reach out and kill her, she wondered? Was this another trick by the Undying? Her pale hand hovered close to its arm, her fingers trembling in equal parts wonder and fear.

Before she could touch it, her wrists were shackled in harsh iron chains. They pulled, causing her to stumble out of reach of the throne and down the stone steps. Her chains connected to a ring imbued into the cold floor, and no matter how hard Daenerys pulled the cruel chains did not budge. 

A dragon cried.

Worry. Panic. Fear. _I am too far from my children,_ she thought. They could not save her here.

“Daenerys Stormborn,” a voice called out from the shadows. “Welcome home.”

She recognised it. The sickly tone, the smug smile. But there was not one, but two. Then three, then four. The warlocks surrounded her, a cage of purple lips and menacing smiles as she knelt in her chains.

“This isn’t my home!” She yelled back at them. At him. Pyat Pree.

“Oh, it is now, Mother of Dragons. This where you will remain. Through winter, summer, then winter again.” One whispered.

_No. My home's across the sea! It is in Westeros! It is that chair!_

“You will never see it.” Another said, recognising her thoughts. Daenerys yanked again on her restraints, standing to gain as much strength as she could. But she was small and weak, and unable to break her own chains. Her face was like fury, but her eyes betrayed her fear. 

“We are strongest in their presence, and they are stronger in yours.” Purple lips sneered. “You need not endure what awaits outside these walls. Here… you will stay. You are safe here. Loved here.”

“Let me go!” She demanded, her voice practically a scream. _Please let me go_.

The men disappeared - their pale purple cloaks absorbing into the shadows like air. Daenerys breathed harshly, confused and alone, the mournful cries of her sons echoing in the distance. She began to weep. 

When Daenerys looked back up, a figure stood in the midst of the darkness, his face obscured. His hair was black as coal, matching with his sad leathers. In his hand, a blade with a white hilt, which flickered and shone in the moonlight. He sounded as if he were crying.

She reached out to him, intent on giving the stranger her comfort, but was held back by iron. A pair of blue eyes blinked open in the dark behind him, and the man turned to ash and blew away. Daenerys watched mournfully as he drifted, adding to the dusting of white on the floor. It was then, she realised, she did not lay on snow.

Behind her, the Iron Throne screamed. A woman, blonde of hair, green of eye - yelling and shrieking as she cut herself upon the iron blades. Every few seconds, it would flicker to a man who looked just like her, his eyes just as mad as the woman before. Back, forth, and back again. Daenerys stood mesmerised by the screams, their echoes bouncing off these rubble walls like thunder.

The woman looked her dead in the eye and shrieked, before collapsing into dust, just like the man from before.

Daenerys stumbled towards the throne, feeling weaker and frailer than she did before. She tripped on a foot, strapped in leather boots. When she looked down, she saw herself.

The woman on the ground looked older. Her hair was tied into intricate braids, her clothes dark black and sharp just like what Viserys had always worn. In her chest, held a dagger - with blood flowing from it freely so that it stained the ash below.

Daenerys wept at the sight. She looked so peaceful, as she lay in front of the steps. So sweet. So sad. Daenerys knelt down so she could offer her own body a dying comfort, to find she had already begun to turn to ash.

She scrambled, her hands clawing at the fine leather coat in strangled sobs. The dead woman’s silver-gold hair floated away in the moonlight, and her face cracked so that it looked like the moon. When nothing remained, save for the blade, Daenerys cried out. Never in her life had she felt so lonely.

Daenerys looked again to the Iron Throne - her life, her goal - to find it still standing there amongst all the death. She stood to reach out for it again, to at least touch its cold and hard blades so she knew something stayed in this room with her. She couldn’t, the chains which held just that bit too short to allow her this one comfort.

She fell to the floor in broken and confused sobs. She wanted to leave. She wanted to get out! She was trapped, and she had no idea what more she could do. Her poor sons, hidden away from her - she couldn’t even hear them anymore.

When Daenerys looked down at the floor where she knelt, she realised her hands had become boney and frail with age, and the lovely silver-gold of the Targaryens was replaced by straw locks of a deathly grey.

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of a series of one-shots regarding the what-ifs of Westeros, for both the show and possibly delving into the books.
> 
> Feel free to comment on any what-ifs you can think of!
> 
> In the works:  
> \- Jon Snow stays dead  
> \- Ned doesn't warn Cersei  
> \- Jon doesn't kill Daenerys after the Battle of King's Landing  
> \- Arya Stark names Tywin Lannister at Harrenhal


End file.
